Aftermath
by Sidney Sussex
Summary: Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock returns to 221B Baker Street. John reacts badly. Rated for... trauma, I suppose? or just to be on the safe side?
1. Chapter 1

_I neither own nor profit from any of these characters; they are the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the BBC._

_If you see something that you think ought to be changed or improved, please feel free to let me know, if you'd like. Constructive criticism is always welcome._

* * *

><p>There had been a bomb, and a fire, and… a flood? Sherlock didn't know. He remembered water.<p>

No, that had been before, the bomb and the fire. This time, only the water. The water, and the fall.

But he hadn't fallen.

Had _John_ fallen?

A moment of sick horror, but no, that wasn't right. John hadn't been there.

Who had fallen?

Sherlock couldn't quite remember, and it didn't matter, anyway. It hadn't been John.

He woke up again, hours later – not that he could tell for certain, but the angle of the sun's slant was different – and was this time greeted by a clatter of dishes and voices somewhere in the distance.

He focused. A door, dark brown wood, and the sounds from beyond it. For a moment, he was confused – who was in the flat? – but then he remembered that he hadn't been in his flat for a very long time.

_John._

But John would be at home now, a home that might not even be Baker Street anymore, and Sherlock was...

Where?

He made as if to stand, but the room swayed around him and he settled back, half-lying, half-sitting against the headboard of the bed. A moment later, a few indrawn breaths, and he tried again. This time he managed to sit up, swing his legs over the edge of the covers, and then the door was flung open.

A beaming, red-faced woman entered. "You are awake!" she said. Sherlock understood the words perfectly, but it took him a moment to place the language – German, Swiss-accented but not Schweizerdeutsch. The statement was obvious, though, so he made no response to it. Instead, "Why am I here?"

The story came out in disjointed pieces, which would have frustrated him if his head had not already been aching, spinning when he tried to force the words to come faster. He had been found at the top of the waterfall, unconscious and bloodied (he noticed, then, his bandaged hands, proof of his arduous climb; his arms did not hurt, though, so not recent – when had he climbed?). He had been brought here to the Gasthaus and seen by the doctor.

Sherlock's heart leapt in his chest for a dizzying moment before he realized that this woman, when she said "the doctor," did not mean _his_ doctor, did not mean John. How could she? She couldn't possibly know about John.

He had lain insensate for days, occasionally shouting in the throes of a nightmare, after which he would be found so tightly entangled in his sheets that it took two of them to extract him and smooth the covers again. But he was better now, and must be hungry; would he like something to eat?

_Just like John_, he thought, but the wryness of the editorial comment was overshadowed by the pang that shot through him when he thought it.

No, thank you. He did not wish to eat.

But there was the one thing he still could not quite remember. There had been a fall, and he had climbed, and John had not been there.

So who had fallen?

It came to him suddenly, a puzzle half-completed, so that he could recognize the picture but not yet see all of the pieces.

_Moriarty._

Had there been anyone else on the cliffs that day? Had there been an accident? He had seen a man fall…

No accident. No body.

They found a body, later that same day, but when they came to tell him, Sherlock was asleep again.

* * *

><p>It was three more days before Sherlock was able to leave the Gasthaus, and three more years before he was free.<p>

He went straight to the only place he had ever wanted to be during those three years.

* * *

><p>It was only as he stood in front of the door, the familiar sight of rough green paint and dull gold numbers, that it occurred to him to feel nervous. In his rush to get home (not to Baker Street, no, but to what it held), he had not stopped to think. It had been three years. Would John have waited? What if he had left, and someone else was living in 221B? What if he <em>hadn't<em> left, and someone else was living _with_ him in 221B?

There was only one way to know, and Sherlock couldn't wait any longer. Three years of separation had been all the patience he could handle for the rest of his life. If John was gone, Sherlock would find him. If there was someone else, then... well, it simply wouldn't _matter_, because John was Sherlock's and Sherlock was John's, and surely, surely, John understood that even though Sherlock had never voiced it.

He turned the key, touched the door handle, warm against his hand in the early morning sun, and let the door fall open.

And then it was the stairs, two, three, at a time, a wild flinging open of the door, pounding heart and anxious glance here, there, everywhere at once, until it fell on the figure staggering back from his chair at the table, an amber-coloured puddle spreading from the toppled tea mug, fork clattering as it fell to the plate below it.

_John._

"John."

But one look from John kept him at bay. He might not understand emotions, might not countenance them in himself, but he could read them, and these were – what?  
>Shock, he had expected that, and hurt (why hurt?) and <em>anger<em>, of all things, _anger_, but why anger? Why hurt, and why anger?

"Who – "  
>but John knew who it was<br>"How – "  
>but it was impossible<br>"You can't – "  
>but if anyone could, Sherlock could<br>a pause  
>"<em>What are you doing here?"<em>

"I came home."

Another pause, another silence.

"I came home, John. As fast as I could. I came home to see _you_."

And now he could see the shock and hurt giving way to the anger, and he didn't understand. Where was relief? Where was pleasure? _Sherlock_ was pleased to be home, had wanted nothing more for months on end. Why didn't John feel the same?

John's voice, when he spoke, was rough and low and dangerous. "You died."  
>"No. But it was necessary to be thought dead."<br>"No, because if it were a ruse, if you were alive somewhere in the world, you would have told me. You would have told me."  
>"I am alive."<br>"You wouldn't have disappeared in the night and left me to wake up wondering where you were. You wouldn't have let me hear about the accident from _Mycroft_. You wouldn't have let me believe, every day for three years, Sherlock, that you were _dead_."  
>"I had to."<br>"You had to." Mocking, almost.  
>"Moriarty's network was vast, John. He had agents all over the world. The only way I could eliminate them all, the only way I could keep <em>you<em> safe, was for them to believe I was no longer a threat. If you had known, they would have found out. They would have hurt you. You were always watched."  
>"I was always watched." Repeating Sherlock's words again. "So Mycroft could visit every week, <em>Moriarty<em> could have me watched every hour of every day, but you, Sherlock, you couldn't even be bothered to let me know you were _alive_!"

The final word was hurled with more venom than Sherlock had thought possible, and for once, his face openly revealed his startlement. He had imagined John might be gone, or might be with someone else, a thousand possibilities, but he had never once imagined that John might be so _angry_.

"I couldn't, John."

And then John was across the room, tear tracks already tracing down his cheekbones, colour rising in his face as he bit back on everything he could have said to Sherlock.

"No, you could have found a way. Mycroft could have said something. Lestrade. You could have found a way, but you didn't _bother_, Sherlock, you didn't _try_, because the great Sherlock Holmes doesn't _care_ about the rest of us petty humans, can't _stand_ to spend a moment thinking about what his actions might do to the rest of us! _I loved you, Sherlock!_"

Sherlock stared at him, all the air he had ever breathed collapsing out of him at once.

_Loved._

Past tense.

He struggled to catch his breath again, could not quite succeed, tears threatening to blind his eyes as well, and he turned and ran. He was halfway across Baker Street, with no idea where he was going, when he heard the squeal of brakes, the driver's shout, the dull sound of impact, soft on hard, and whirled around just in time to see John crumple to the tarmac.

After that, it was all flashing lights and foil blankets and had he seen the accident and would he sign here please and did he know this man and no, he couldn't ride in the ambulance, but he climbed in anyway, because it was John, and even though everything inside him tore at him to run, keep running, get away, turn off the _noise_, it was _John_, and he couldn't.

They took John away from him at the hospital, but his hand stayed clenched as if he were still clutching the sleeve of John's shirt the way he had for the whole of the ambulance ride.


	2. Chapter 2

He sat as far away from John as he could get in the cramped hospital room. It was a private room, at least – Mycroft was good for _something_. He was certain that John was awake; the regular rhythm of his breathing had changed some time ago, but John knew he was here, and Sherlock could not stand to invite another conversation where every word was a blow. He would have given anything to be the one in the hospital bed, for physical pain to etch upon his body the things he felt right now. It would have been a release, but now, instead, again, he had hurt someone else.

If he were in John's place, would John be here now, in his?

He shook his head to clear it. That wasn't what had happened, and maybe he didn't deserve to ask.

* * *

><p>Clara had come to see John. He hadn't wanted Harry, especially not after a few drinks (to steady her nerves, after all, it wasn't every day one's little brother was hit by a car), but he and Clara had always gotten on well. And who else was there, after all? He couldn't think of a single friend he had made in the three years since Sherlock's disappearance, and a few pints with Lestrade on particularly difficult nights hardly forged a friendship that warranted a bedside visit in the hospital.<p>

Sherlock was still curled in the corner of the room, silent. He had not said a word, and John had not even met his eyes since he had been forced to admit he was awake so that the attending physician could check his neurological responses. Still, he was there. He hadn't left, not once. Was that enough to tell John that he loved him? Sherlock didn't know anymore. Nothing had worked the way he thought it should since his return to London, to…

_Not_ to John. John hadn't let him.

"So he isn't dead."  
>"No, even <em>I<em> can deduce that much, thanks."

Sherlock snapped to attention. Without appearing to, he strained to capture every word of the quiet conversation between Clara and John.

"So why – ?"  
>"He said if I knew he was alive, we'd both be in danger."<br>"So he did it to keep you safe."  
>"No, he didn't. He did it to win, to beat Moriarty at his own game. And it doesn't <em>matter<em>."  
>"He still loves you, though."<p>

She knew? Did that mean John knew, too?

"_What_? Clara, I don't even know if he's my _friend_ anymore. He _left_, don't you understand? He lied and he left and then he lied some more. What would you call that? Worse than idiocy. Perversion, maybe. _Betrayal_. Not love."

White horror bloomed before Sherlock's eyes and he stood, mute pain washing over him because of – what? Something he could not name. Because, after all, it wasn't love. John had said so. From his hospital bed, where he lay because of Sherlock, John had said so.

He rose, eyes veiled so that they would not see what roiled within him, and left without a word.

* * *

><p>The next day, John was well enough to walk up and down the hospital corridors. Good for his recovery, they said, good for his body. The sooner he was able to walk alone, climb stairs, eat, drink, the sooner he could go home.<br>Clara came to visit again. Even without looking up, Sherlock recognized her footsteps from the elevator to John's room. Perhaps she hadn't noticed him. If only he could get her to stay with John until the soldier was ready to move his recovery to Baker Street, it would be all right, but Sherlock couldn't ask.

It was some time later when he heard those footsteps again, slower this time and accompanied by a shuffling, hesitant footfall that seemed a debasement of the strong soldier's gait he was accustomed to in John. He hurt to hear it. The limp, he noticed, had not returned.  
>They walked down the corridor away from him. Was John's step getting surer? He couldn't tell from this distance. Maybe he could go home soon.<p>

It suddenly occurred to him that he didn't know where that was.

Yes. Definitely a surer step. John had not been badly injured, they'd said, only the blow to his head. He would be fine in a few days. Despite their reassurances, though, Sherlock had needed to see for himself. Doctors had been wrong about John before.  
>He had heard them returning down the hallway, but had been too absorbed to really notice until he heard John say, "Is that – ?"<br>From the nurse's station (they must be nearly back to John's room by now, Sherlock thought, but still didn't look up), he heard a voice say, "He's been there all night."  
>"All night?"<br>"Yes, he's been saying he won't leave until John's all right… Does he mean you?"

Stupid, Sherlock thought. John was her patient; she must know his name. How many possibilities could there be? But it was the voice of the overweight nurse in the lurid pink scrubs, and he suspected that she had probably paid more attention to the night nurses' gossip than to the patients whose care she was taking over from them.

Clara was murmuring something to John now, softly enough that Sherlock couldn't tell what she was saying. A heavy sigh, and John's footsteps, more rhythmic now, across the wide, textured linoleum of the corridor to where Sherlock sat, curled into a corner, his face buried in the rough fabric of his coat sleeve.

The footsteps stopped just inches from Sherlock's shoes. He still didn't look up.

"Sherlock."

No.

"Sherlock, what are you doing here?"

A lance of pain through him at the words, those words, because John had said them to him already once. Yesterday. In their… in _John's_… flat.  
>The tone of the words was different this time, gentler somehow, but no less accusing despite it.<p>

John was waiting for an answer, but Sherlock had had no time to come up with one. Instead, he lifted his head and met John's eyes, seeing in them cold flint, cold steel, cold judgment – but then the glare broke, just for a moment, and he saw something else behind it.  
>Sherlock's face was tear-stained, showing weakness, he <em>hated<em> it, but this was more important.

"I didn't know whom to call. I tried Lestrade, but he didn't answer. I didn't know anyone else."  
>"What do you mean, 'whom to call?' Call about what?"<br>"To look after you if I went away. You wanted me to go, but someone had to stay, to make sure you were all right. And there wasn't anyone, so it had to be me."  
>John stared down at him. Was he waiting for more? What hadn't Sherlock said?<br>"Why did someone have to stay?"  
>It was a legitimate question, Sherlock realized. John was not severely injured, and he was in hospital, surrounded by medical professionals. Clara was keeping an eye on him. Why did anyone have to stay?<p>

"For me."  
>John took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, rubbing his forehead with one hand. "What does that even mean?"<br>"I had to know…"  
>"Know what? That I was 'all right?' Of course I'm not 'all right,' Sherlock. You disappeared for three years. I thought you were dead. As soon as I'd finally started to think about maybe one day having a chance of getting over it, you came back! You left me alone for three years, you never checked if I was 'all right' then! Why the sudden interest?"<p>

Sherlock was stunned, stunned, and the burning behind his eyes threatened more weakness. No, he _couldn't_.

"I checked every day."

A sudden silence that rang louder than John's shouting, quieter than Sherlock's faltering whisper.

"You…"  
>"Did you think that Moriarty was the only one watching you? Did you think Mycroft visited every week out of the goodness of his heart?" His eyes stung. "John, did you really think…" but he couldn't say those things, couldn't even give voice to the terrible ideas that John must have believed of him, because now he understood the anger. John thought he had <em>left<em>.

He _had_ left.

But he had thought John knew he would come back. He always came back.

Sherlock dropped his head back to the sleeve of his coat, glad of the chance to hide his traitorous eyes.

"Sherlock…"  
>"You weren't safe unless I was gone," he started, raising his head again, his words crashing into one another as he tried to explain all at once, before John was angry again. "Moriarty's men… he's dead, John, did you hear? He fell… and they were loyal, and if I was alive, you were in danger, I told you…"<br>"Sherlock." But it was different now, John's voice. The gentleness was not tinged with accusation. "I'm _always_ in danger when you're around."  
>He had no words to respond to that. "They're dead now."<br>"Moriarty's men?"  
>A nod. "So I came back."<br>"That's what you were doing."  
>"I told you yesterday."<br>"Well, I wasn't exactly paying my best attention yesterday. And I _was_ hit by a car right afterward."  
>"Why were you following me?"<br>"Why do you think, you great git? To stop you from leaving. Why didn't you take me with you, hunting Moriarty's men? I'm a better shot than you, you know."  
>He was. It would have been logical to take him.<p>

_I'll burn the heart out of you._

"It was too dangerous."  
>"That's never bothered you before."<br>"I couldn't keep you safe."  
>"You didn't exactly have a perfect record of that before you left, either."<br>"I needed you out of harm's way so I could focus on the job that needed to be done."  
>"I'm a distraction."<br>"Putting you at risk is a distraction."

John was silent for a moment.

"Do you have any idea what it was like?"  
>"Yes."<br>"Thinking you were gone, thinking that was the end of it all? That the world would never see another person like you? Do you have any idea how much I hated opening the refrigerator every night and finding only _food_ in there?"  
>"I could have made a delivery arrangement with a butcher."<br>"_Sherlock…_"

Sherlock met his gaze for the first time in long minutes.

"Or I… I could put some fingers in there myself? I have an idea for an experiment, destroying fingerprints…"  
>"You'd better not. Mrs. Hudson's tiramisu is in there right now; she'd have an absolute fit."<p>

John knelt beside him. "Come on."

"John, are… are we okay?"  
>"Maybe once I'm out of this godawful place. Have you <em>seen<em> what they're serving us?"

And Sherlock rested his head against the wall behind him in utter relief. He knew it would not be this easy, that John would have questions and that the answers would not always make him happy. But just for now, just for the moment, John was letting him back in, and that was all that mattered.

"John?"  
>"Mmm?"<br>"… I missed you."


End file.
